


Boy With the Skeleton Hand

by kototyph



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, M/M, Morning Routines, Offscreen Animal Death, Reaper Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 20:26:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5679613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”I expect to live for a long time yet,” Castiel says simply. “But when I die, I expect you to be waiting.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy With the Skeleton Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Totallytwistedwords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Totallytwistedwords/gifts).



> For [totallytwistedwords](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Totallytwistedwords/pseuds/Totallytwistedwords) and the prompt, "Death!Dean meets Human!/Mortal!Cas. If they touch, Cas will die. But also they just might be falling in love?" Also heavily inspired by the fabulous and achingly adorable comic [Girl With the Skeleton Hand](http://www.johnnywander.com/comic/girl-with-the-skeleton-hand-1) by the folks at [Johnny Wander](http://www.johnnywander.com). Title very obviously taken from there as well!

“They’ll get more real,” Dean says, looking down at the small, translucent robin that’s hopped onto the toe of his boot.

It peers up at them expectantly, head turning this way and that, and eyes Castiel’s toast with particular avarice. Castiel obediently tears off a small piece and tosses it into the grass. The dead bird seems quite happy to swoop down and peck at the bread, despite not having any visible effect on it; Castiel is vaguely glad of that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if there was ghost bread on top of ghost… everything else.

“Well, they’re already real,” Dean says, waving away his earlier words. He’s sitting across from Castiel at the deck table, sipping coffee from an old chipped cup from the state of Maine. Castiel collects them. The coffee mugs, not Deans. “I mean, they’ll get more real- _looking_ , the more… the older you get.”

“The closer I get to my own death,” Castiel guesses, and Dean grimaces.

“That’s not going to be for a long, long time,” Dean says, scowling into his coffee. He would know, Castiel supposes. A professional hazard.

The morning is dewy and a little cold, and Castiel is pleased with his own forethought in bringing out a sweater. He tucks his fingers into his sleeves and says with a small smile, “I’m not afraid of death."

Dean sighs. “That’s because you’re stupid,” he mutters, black eyes averted as he takes another sip. “Just, dumb as a fucking post.”

Castiel’s smile broadens, and Dean tries to hide his own smile behind the mug. Tries. Fails.

“The tomcat from two houses over killed that robin yesterday,” Castiel says, nodding at the bird now strutting back and forth along the railing flowerbox, where his hardier herbs are starting to show signs of life.

“I was wondering about that,” Dean says. “Small spirits like her don’t usually stick around too long.”

“She was protecting something,” Castiel says. “A nest full of hatchlings. The cat went back for them today.”

Those black eyes narrow. “He got them, too?”

“No,” Castiel says. “She quite thoroughly dissuaded him.”

He points at his lap, and Dean’s eyebrows rise in a speculative arch.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Castiel says severely. “I’m trying to show you something.”

Dean smirks at that, but stands up so he can see over the table between them. He blinks a few times, clearly startled, and then he starts laughing.

“You’re never going to get rid of him, now,” he warns, easing back into his chair.

The tomcat, quite dead and quite comfortably ensconced in Castiel’s lap, opens one gleaming silver eye at Castiel’s soft laugh. He’s curled himself into a perfect circle of pearlescent fur the exact width of Castiel’s crossed legs, a noticeably cold weight across the tops of his thighs. The cat makes a small chirrup of protest, and Castiel resumes petting him.

“What about the baby birds, though?” Dean asks, looking out at the trees in Castiel’s yard with a frown. “Poor guys.”

“Oh, they’re fine,” Castiel says. “I called the neighbor girl and she took them home, nest and all.” Charlie, whose mother despairs of her becoming anything less than the next Jane Goodall, has quite the suburban menagerie.  By the girl’s last excited count, relayed to Castiel while she carefully collected the small chicks from the interior of his second-favorite birdhouse, there are two snakes, three mourning doves, an owlet with a broken leg, frog spawn in the thousands, and a very fat raccoon named Smuckers currently under her care.

“That’s good,” Dean says quietly. He’s watching Castiel’s hand, the one stroking along the tomcat’s icy fur. Castiel looks down at it, at the white gleam of bone where flesh should be, and turns it palm up.

“I kind of like it,” he says, splaying his skeletal fingers. “Very elegant, in a way.”

“Cas,” Dean sighs.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs back, and reaches across the table.

Dean stares at his hand for a moment, then sets down his coffee. He gathers Castiel’s fingers in both hands, wrapping them up completely. Dean isn’t cold the way the cat is, the way other dead things are; his warmth seeps into Castiel’s chilled bones and heats them through, the way nothing else seems to.

“Sorry, Cas,” Dean whispers, lifting his hand to brush a kiss over the bony tips of Castiel’s fingers. “I had no idea something like this could even happen, you know?”

“I like it,’’ Castiel says stubbornly. After all, if it hadn’t happened, he might never have known why Dean wouldn’t touch him. He might never have known _Dean,_ the way he truly is. “No one else has noticed.”

“They won’t,” Dean says, smile melancholy against Castiel’s fingers. “Unless they’ve been touched, like you, they won’t ever see it. They can’t.”

“It doesn’t hurt. I can still feel things, it’s just… a little colder.”

Dean immediately huffs a breath over their cupped hands, and Castiel laughs.

“Yes, thank you. Keep doing that for the next, oh. Fifty years.”

“I see what this is. You just want a heater around when you need one,” Dean says. His tone is joking, but his eyes look raw.

”I expect to live for a long time yet,” Castiel says simply. “But when I die, I expect you to be waiting.”

Dean doesn’t say anything for a moment. He turns his face away, but keeps Castiel’s hand close, the backs of Castiel’s fingers brushing against his cheek.

“Souls like yours don’t kick around here, you know,” he says eventually, looking out at the trees again. “They go straight up.”

“We’ll see about that,” Castiel says.

“Oh, will we?” Dean says, sounding amused.

Castiel turns his wrist to flick him gently on the nose, and Dean says, “ _Hey_ ,” hiding his face in Castiel’s sweater sleeve so he can’t do it again.

The sun comes up over the last of the hills, and filters red-gold through the leaves to land in spots and specks on Castiel’s deck. The tomcat is still purring, a soft little rumble Castiel can feel near his knee.

“Can you stay for a while?” Castiel says, poking Dean in the forehead.

“Pointy,” Dean mutters, then, “Ow, don’t _do_ that. Yeah, I can stay.”

“I’ll make more coffee,” Castiel says. He’d spent fifteen minutes at the grocery store grinder, trying to find the sweetest, most cloying flavor he could. Dean loves flavored coffee, though he’ll vehemently deny it.

“You’d better let me,” Dean says, looking pointedly at the cat. “Grounds are in the freezer, right?”

“Right,” Castiel confirms, and squeezes Dean’s hand in his before letting go.


End file.
